"Why?"
"I found out that she'd left town earlier in the afternoon, so I couldn't have talked to her even if I'd wanted to. Which I didn't. I'm not an idiot. Her message was loud and clear: I'd been played for a fool."
"Why bring it up? Why still fuss over it?"
"Because…" He had to swallow three times before he could continue. "Because she had a baby exactly nine months after that."
"A baby?"
"Yes. You."
"Me? So?"
"Your family has dark hair and blue eyes, but your hair is blond and your eyes are green. Didn't you ever wonder why?"
"No," she insisted.
"Didn't you wonder why your mother was so cruel to you?"
"She was cruel to my brothers, too. It wasn't just me."
"Didn't you ever wonder why you never felt as if you belonged with that horrid bunch?"
He could see that he'd scored a few points. A troubled expression flitted across her features, but it was swiftly masked.
The photo of Emily lay on the table between them. He shoved it toward her.
"Ask me again why you look so much like her," Ken said.
She stared at the picture, a scowl marring her brow. "You're trying to tell me something important, but I don't get it. I give up. Why do I look so much like her?"
Was she being deliberately obtuse?
"Because you're my daughter. You're
mine
. You were raised as if David Merriweather was your father, but he—"
"Shut up!" she hissed. She pushed back her chair and leapt to her feet.
"It's true. I'm your dad."
"Don't you dare say that."
She glanced around frantically, like a trapped animal, as if she was about to run out the door and keep on running, but he couldn't permit her to leave. Not until they'd hashed it out to the bitter end.
"Calm down and think for a minute."
"About what?"
"You know your relationship with your mom is all screwed up. With your dad too. I always figured he had to suspect. They hadn't slept together in ages, so he would have—"
"Shut up!" she repeated more vehemently. Her distress palpable, she started pulling on her hair, scratching her arms. "You're claiming that I…that my mother…that I'm not…"
She couldn't complete any of her sentences, and he gazed up at her, letting a wave of comfort ooze from him to her.
He'd had twenty-six years to accept what he'd done, what had happened, but she'd only had a few seconds.
He'd spent decades, playing and replaying this encounter in his head. Especially over the past months, when his breathing difficulties had gotten so awful, when the news from the doctors was all bad.
He'd envisioned her having differing reactions, from glad to angry to some variation in between. And of course, in his fantasy, he'd been extremely logical and articulate. He'd explained the details perfectly, but that was the problem with imagined scenarios. The reality was always much different, always more distasteful or wounding.
"Sit down," he said again, amazed that she complied. But then, her knees weren't steady, and she collapsed onto the chair more than anything.
"Why are you doing this to me?" she demanded.
"When I heard you were engaged to that banker, I decided it was time. You can make a better choice for yourself than the ones Jackie inflicts on you. I wanted you to be happy for a change, and I doubted you were."
"You
doubted
I was happy? How would you presume to know?"
"I kept track of you, honey. You'd be surprised how much I discovered."
"What proof is there that I…" She stopped and shook her head. "You couldn't have any proof, so I'm curious why you'd do this to me. I thought we were friends."
"We're more than friends."
"You expect me to agree that I'm not a Merriweather, that I've never been a Merriweather, that David isn't my father, that Lucas and Dustin aren't my brothers."
"They're still your brothers, and the whole world can believe that David was your father. Nobody ever has to learn the truth—except you and me."
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. She was so miserable. He wished she was younger, that he could take her onto his lap and tell her it would all be okay. And it would be. Eventually. Once she got over the shock.
A sly, cold gleam clouded her eyes. "You're not going to threaten to call a press conference, are you? You're not about to ask for a bit of cash so it stays a little secret just between us?" She peered derisively around his dismal kitchen. "Blackmail is such an easy way to pay the bills, isn't it?"
"I didn't deserve that," he scolded.
"Didn't you? You wouldn't be the first guy who hit me up for money for a spiteful reason. I've been wondering why you had Matt bring me here. Maybe I finally found out."
"This isn't about your damn money. You can choke on it for all I care."
She stared at him, and he stared right back, trying to appear composed and firm.
He wanted to grab a mirror, to point at her nose, her chin, her cheekbones, and shout,
Look! Look! Tell me you're not mine!
"I didn't have any idea," he explained, "until I saw a picture of your family in a business magazine. I don't remember why I was reading it; I just was. And there you were. About two years old. Emily was six, but I had an album of photos from when she was two. I pulled them out and held them up, side by side. I nearly had a heart attack."
Tears flooded her eyes. She licked her bottom lip.
"If what you're saying is true," she spat, "then my entire life has been a lie. I'm not a Merriweather—"
"Yes, you are," he resolutely stated. "You're still
you
. That hasn't changed. We simply know more about you than we used to know."
She glared at him, and he could sense the emotions roiling her. He could have filled the void with chatter, could have attempted to comfort her with words he couldn't seem to find, but this was a situation she had to work out for herself.
In the end, she'd either come to grips with it or she wouldn't.
She
was the one who had to determine the next step.
"You told me this for a reason," she ultimately said, "and you claim it's not blackmail. What do you want?"
"I want you to be part of my family, but that can all be on your terms." He gestured around the kitchen, meaning to encompass his house. "If you'd like to move in and live here, you can. If you'd like it to be more casual than that—where you'd visit when you're in Colorado or call when you can—I'm fine with that too. My hope is that you'd stay with me, that we could make up for lost time."
"Lost…
time
?" She scoffed as if it was a concept she'd never heard before.
"What I don't want is for you to storm out and never come back."
"Where would I go?" She was so pale that he worried she might pass out. "I've never belonged anywhere. Where do I belong now?"
He reached over and patted her hand. "It will be all right, kiddo."
"I don't see how."
"You need to relax and reassess while you digest everything. Then you should do what's best for you. Not for me."
"Oh, man…" She rubbed her temples as if her head was throbbing. "I think…think…I should talk to my mother."
"That's a good idea, but why don't you give it a day or two? Calm down a bit so you can figure out what to say to her."
"I imagine it will be such an easy conversation," she sarcastically chided. "I'll simply ask if she had an affair twenty-six years ago with a guy named Ken Scott. I'll ask if you're my father."
"She'll never admit it."
"No, but I have to ask the question and listen to her answer." She stood again, saw her purse and picked it up. "She's probably not even still in Denver. She might be home in Santa Fe already."
"You can't leave yet."
"Why not?"
"Matt will be back in a minute. He can drive you."
"I can't be trapped in a car with him. I'll call a cab."
Just then, Matt halted her escape by walking in the door with Jeremy.
"Here's the milk you needed, Brittney," Jeremy said. "I don't know why we had to get any. I don't even like milk."
He placed the carton on the counter, then headed to the living room. The TV blared.
Brittney stared at Matt, but Matt avoided her gaze and looked at Ken, instead.
"You told her?"
"Yes."
"The whole ball of wax?"
"The whole ball."
"What now?" Matt pressed.
"It's up to her," Ken said.
"Did you know?" Brittney asked Matt.
"Yes."
"The entire time? From when we first met?"
"I've known since I was a kid."
She sagged, as if he'd struck her with the news.
"You would never have told me yourself," she charged.
"I told you before: It wasn't my story to tell." He shrugged. "If I'd had my way, you would never have found out."
Ken said, "He tried to talk me out of confessing many, many times."
"And why is that?" Brittney inquired.
Ken couldn't bear to hurt her, but on the spur of the moment, he couldn't devise a suitable lie. Matt answered for him.
"I didn't want him upset, and I still don't. I've known a few of your kind—"
"My
kind
?" Brittney snorted.
"—and Ken will never come out the winner in this. He has this fantasy built up in his mind about what you're like and how it will be between you, but that's all it is: a fantasy."
She narrowed her focus, scowling with fury and regret.
"Why are you always so mean to me? What did I ever do to you?"
"You didn't do anything to me. It's what you might do to Ken that has me gnashing my teeth."
"Why would I do anything to Ken? Why are you worrying?"
"You really have to ask?"
"Yes. What is it with you?"
"Well now, let's see. Will you move in with us? Will you live with us in our crappy little house, caring for him as his health deteriorates? Will you throw away your other life—your rich, comfortable,
real
life—so you can doodle around and pretend he's your dad?"
"I don't know what I'm going to do."
"Do you even believe him?"
"I don't know that either." She clutched at her purse, opened it, and dug out her phone. "I need to call that cab."
"Coward," Matt hissed.
"I am not," she fumed.
"At the first hint of a conflict, you're running away. Why am I not surprised?"
"Listen you! I've just had an enormous shock, and I don't have to—"
But her tirade was cut off as Jeremy dashed in.
"Brittney," he said, "I think you're on TV."
"What?"
"Come here."
He grabbed her wrist and dragged her to the living room. Ken and Matt followed.
"Isn't that you?" Jeremy asked, pointing at the television set.
The news was on, and there was a picture of Brittney on the screen, the word, MISSING, stamped under it. A female reporter was speaking into the camera.
"Turn it up, Jeremy," Ken said.
"…last seen five days ago, having vanished without a trace from a downtown restaurant," the woman announced. "Authorities have no leads in the disappearance and have not ruled out foul play. The Merriweather family is offering a substantial reward for her safe return. Anyone with any information is asked to—"
Brittney yanked the remote out of Jeremy's hand and hit the mute button.
"For heaven's sake," she muttered. "Who would have realized I was gone?"
"Are you missing?" Jeremy inquired.
"No, silly. It's all a big mistake." She shook her head with disgust. "Excuse me. I have to call my mother and let her know I'm okay."
She went to the kitchen, and Ken tagged after her, lurking as she powered up her phone and punched in Jacquelyn's number.
It rang several times, then Brittney said, "Mother?" There was a pause, and she continued. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. I just watched the news. Why would you stir up all this trouble?" She spun away from Ken and lowered her voice. "I'm so embarrassed. You have everyone searching for me for no reason."
She listened and listened and finally said, "Dustin? Why is he in Denver? He's supposed to be on his honeymoon." Another pause. "Well, he shouldn't have come home early, because there's nothing wrong. And
no
, I don't want to talk to him. Don't put him on the—"
From across the room, Ken heard her brother shout, "Where the hell are you? Are you all right?"
"Of course, I'm all right. I've been staying with some friends."